Rain of Ash
by Americana Psychotica
Summary: Harry is informed that he is not, in fact, a Potter at all, but a Corvus. In light of this new discovery, he faces the growing threat of Voldemort and a choice; let his world burn, or fight the people he once thought to protect.
1. Escapar

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and am not accruing any material wealth from this fan-made production. Plot and original characters are mine and mine alone, unless credited to another party.**

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><p>Harry scowled as the locks clicked into place, one after the other, under his aunt's rant. It wasn't <em>his <em>fault the broom had been angled just so that he could trip over it, fall, break her precious china, _and _somehow set fire to the roast she'd been cooking all day – and by cooking he meant having him slave over for hours on end for a dinner he wouldn't be attending. He flopped onto the old, thin mattress, and stared at the ceiling. Last year had been his slight reprieve – only to end with Cedric's death and Voldemort coming back. He shivered and sat up again, scooting until he was against the wall, arms wound around his knees. Ever since then, he'd been experiencing intense headaches that lasted for the entire day, with no end in sight. He couldn't apply himself to homework to get his mind off it, and he couldn't even complain to his friends; the few letters he'd managed had all been unanswered – no post of any kind came to him.

At first he'd assumed his uncle was hiding and burning them, but no luck – he simply wasn't getting mail. Huffing, he rose to his feet, wincing a little as the pain in his head increased with the motion, making him wobbly. He was on edge, yearning to get out of the house, get away from the Dursleys, if only for a little while. His irritation ran his thoughts in circles, the monotony weighing down on him as he stared into space, chewing his lip furiously. Finally the impossible mindlessness ceased sharply when his door was yanked open and his aunt gestured for him to get out, lips pursed. The teen scrambled from the bed and all but ran from the house, barely stomaching and strangled 'thank you' before he bolted for the park. He wasn't going to waste this – he was going to do what he wanted for once in his life.

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><p>It took wheedling and meaningless promises to get his idiot cousin to take him along when he went off to go clubbing with friends; Harry knew he'd have to appease him somehow later as penance, but couldn't care less – he was free of his family for a limited time, and he wanted to do something, <em>anything<em>, to get his mind of his own miserable existence. He'd heard rumours of underground clubs that allowed Muggles and Wizarding kind alike to mingle without fear of discovery, a mutual agreement that what happened there stayed there. It was spoken of in whispers, known but frowned upon by elders, but never curbed. Perhaps it was a problem, festering under the surface, just waiting to erupt into plain view, but until then, the clubs persisted.

Breaking away from Dudley's group, Harry wove through the crowds, following directions he'd 'overheard' some Ravenclaw seventh years talking about the year before. He soon found a suitably dingy, dilapidated building, where a ragged woman in all black stood, chewing on a toothpick. He inched forward, eyes flicking over the facade for some sign.

"You going in or what, kid?" He met her bright blue eyes and scowled, uncertain as to how he was supposed to get in when there seemed to be nothing through the door. She smirked in reply and produced a wand, nonchalantly gesturing to the entrance.

"Know how to cast a Patronus?" He nodded, moving closer. She grinned and ducked into the building, implying he should follow. He did so, skirting around a pile of questionable materials and all but pressing against the witch's back, uneasy.

"Your wand still active?" He blinked and pulled his wand out, holding it up.

"Um-"

"Ministry puts monitors on any and all under-aged witch's and wizard's wands. Hand it here." He complied, she examined, made a few gestures, coaxed a flash of light from the wood, and pressed it back into his hand.

"Good; cast a Patronus, give your name – first only, monikers and aliases allowed – and wait." She winked and strode back out, pocketing her wand and producing a fag as she went. He stared after her before doing as instructed, mumbling his name. The stag circled the room once, tossed his head, and dissipated sharply through the wall, before a segment sank into the floor. A beady eyed wizard with slicked back hair and over plucked eyebrows glared out of the room.

"Harry, eh? Come on, don't have all day." Harry scurried forward, sliding through the entrance as it began to ground closed.

"House rules," snapped the wizard, gesturing to the dance floor packed with writhing bodies.

"First; no fighting – we will throw you out, damage to you and your wand bedamned. Second; don't ask for names, jobs, the like. People come here to get away, not to be interrogated. Third; we'll serve you if you have money, no questions asked, Wizarding or Muggle – we aren't your mum, we don't care what happens to you so long as you don't break something or wretch all over the floor. Fourth and final – do _not _tell officials where this place is. Do you agree to these terms?" Harry felt the tingle of a magical binding and nodded dumbly, blinking away the flash of light that ensued. The wizard sneered and shoved him forward, calling, "Have a nice night, mate!"

Harry nodded despite knowing he didn't need to reply, staring at the low lit room, the pulsing music thundering over what little conversation might have been going on. As he passed some of the booths, he realised each one had a silencing spell cast on it; you could go in and out of the area of effect, carrying on conversation within and dancing outside.

He saw a few vaguely familiar faces and a large majority of people in Wizarding fashions amidst the Muggles, all coexisting easily. He sighed and shook himself, silently scolding the Slytherine portion of him that wanted him to scope the place out before he even considered taking the plunge, and sidled over to the bar.

"Need a drink?" a woman leaning against the bar inquired, the swirling witch lights casting a sickly rainbow over her shaved scalp. He shrugged and she snorted, producing a small bottle.

"Goblin rum – not as strong as you'd think," she assured at his dubious expression. She slid a glass of water to him as well and moved to serve someone else, leaving him to swivel on the bar stool and stare out at the mass of bodies. The music sounded somewhat familiar – _Ravenlocke, _his mind supplied helpfully, reminding him of Ginny's infatuation with the pop star. He crossed over between Muggle and Wizarding music – Ravenlocke in the Wizarding World, Fabiàn Alejandro in the Muggle one. This, specifically, was his Ravenlocke work – Harry couldn't pinpoint what made it so obviously _different_, but it was.

Rolling his eyes, he downed his drink, grimacing at the sour spicy taste. He chased it down with the water, feeling his headache begin to diminish. _Bizarre_...

"Need another?" He nodded, still staring into the crowd. Another small bottle was pushed to him, sans water this time. He down this too and rose to his feet, feeling jittery suddenly. Something moved him into the fray, found him pressed into the arms of at least three different people, not dancing so much as grinding, a hodgepodge of bizarre and normal perfumes assaulting his nose as the music changed to something darker, angrier, but still Ravenlocke-

Now he was pressed against someone familiar – oddly familiar. He didn't bother opening his eyes – when had he closed them? – musing on how strange the familiarity was. Who was he this intimate with? He slid his arms around his partner's neck, leaning forward. Hot, pomegranate and amaretto scented breath gusted across his face, the sound of humming filling his ears beneath the throb of the music.

They were moving, out of the crowd, into one of the unsilenced booths; fingers massaged his scalp as his head was tipped up and hot lips pressed to his, an equally hot tongue swiping across the seam of them. He parted them in response, inviting the plunge of the hot muscle into his own mouth, trying to press closer. They moaned in unison, hands searching each other out and twining together, pressing palm to palm as they kissed harder, barely coming up for air before they were kissing again. Heat made them light-headed; lights swam behind their lids as the music got louder, thundered around them, and then they broke away, stumbled back into the crowd, lost each other and found others. The room began to spin sometime later, and Harry finally freed himself from the throng, collapsing into a booth and curling in on himself, the euphoria giving way to Voldemort before he finally passed out.

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><p>He woke up the next morning in the outer room, the witch who'd first greeted him crouched next to him.<p>

"Morning, stranger – brought some clothes." She shrugged as he struggled to sit up, scrubbing his eyes furiously.

"You're pretty small, so they might be a little big – I'm pulling from a random stash after all. You staying or going?" He stared at her blearily, fingers curling into the offered clothes.

"...Going. I'll be back tonight." She nodded and produced a thin wooden square, a little smaller than a Galleon.

"Pass – just cast your Patronus at it, and it'll record it. It'll get you in for life – or for however long this house stays." She laughed and rose.

"I'm Sally, if you ever need anything. If this house does go down, that'll get you into the next one if you tell 'em I gave it to you." She helped him to his feet, propelling him toward the door with a rough shove.

"See ya tonight, kid." He pulled on the new shirt and battered jacket, twisting the scarf around his hands. He finally opted against the jeans and left, wracking his brain. He vaguely recalled last night – dancing with several partners or even groups, being bought drinks, running into a couple wasted Hogwarts students – but nothing else. He thought something happened – something important, but he couldn't be bothered to remember. His headache was back in full force, and he needed to get back to the Dursleys – or maybe just find one of the wizards from last night and beg for a place to stay...

"Oi, Potter!" Dudley's panicked tones did nothing to assuage his discomfort.

"What the fuck, where did you go? Mum's going ballistic trying to find you – are you _hungover_? Oh my god, she's going to kill me-" Finally Harry punched him in the arm to shut him up, massaging his temples with his other hand.

"Shut up, Big D – I'm not hungover, just have a headache from yesterday." He waved him off, stumbling in the general direction of the subway as far as he knew.

"Go away – I'll get back on my own. I'll tell Petunia you had nothing to do with it – that'll make her happy." His cousin ignored him, yanking him into an upright position.

"No no no – I'll get you back, Piers'll drive us." Harry objected weakly and was ignored, dragged off to face Petunia's wrath properly. He had a feeling he wouldn't be able to get out again.

As luck would have it, his aunt was distracted by a visitor and only locked him in his room, not even bothering to divest him of his wand. With the means to get back out found, Harry settled in for a nap, hoping it would dismiss his headache in the process.

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><p>It began to cycle; he'd sleep all day, sneak out early in the evening, and come back early in the morning, the Dursleys none the wiser. They denied him food for his little escapade before; he found food that night, staying mostly healthy. He relished in his new found freedom and friends, relieved to have people he could talk to for once. The club didn't care who you were – he discovered that soon enough, his distinctive features causing nary a double take whenever he was there. He settled into the hectic nightlife and sunk himself into it – the alcohol, music, and dancing kept Voldemort at bay, his friends kept the loneliness away, and his day-long 'naps' left the Dursleys no choice but to leave him alone.<p>

His usual night begun, he settled into his place at the bar, accepting his new favorite drink from Claudia, the bartender who'd served him the first night, as she passed – freckled fairy water. Gay as the drink sounded, it served its purpose; spicy, fruity, and only slightly sweet, it burned away his inhibitions and threw him into a haze of barely sober comfort, surrounded by the human sea as he swayed with the music, settling into the ebb and flow without a thought. He was carried to one of the edges of the floor, near a group of witches and wizards his age – all familiar.

"I didn't know Slytherins hung out with rabble like us," he greeted them, stumbling into their midsts and almost running into Pansy Parkinson. Blaise Zabini caught him, trying to figure out who he was.

"We need to keep ourselves entertained too, don't we...?" Harry snorted and nodded at that, stepping back.

"Right you are, Zabini – it's Potter," he supplied, flinging an arm around Theodore Nott and smirking at the gaping Slytherins. He scanned the group and frowned playfully.

"Where's Malfoy? Playing the-" _hiccup _"dutiful son?" He giggled and then laughed outright, almost pulling Nott down with him when he pitched forward. Someone caught him and yanked him upright, glowering. He brightened and flung his arms around Draco Malfoy's neck, crowing, "Malfoy! You're _here_." The blonde shoved him away, brushing himself off with a sneer.

"Unfortunately. Why are _you_ here, Potter?" Dredger, the bouncer who'd met Harry at the door the first night, was passing by as he asked. Turning, he joined them, pulling Harry to his feet with a tug.

"Harry's a regular since the start of the summer," he answered for him, looking him over.

"Been hitting the fairy water hard tonight, eh, Har?" The raven nodded hard and giggled, stumbling against Parkinson again. She arched away, expression a mixture of bemusement and disgust. Dredger laughed and caught him, pulling him up.

"I think it's about time Sally called someone for you. Any friends live nearby." Harry wrinkled his nose and furrowed his brow with concentration, then shook his head, tipping over again. The bouncer caught him with practised ease and sighed.

"You know him?" he asked the group, still supporting the drowsy teen. Malfoy's eyebrow arched up sharply.

"Not well enough to take him with us," Zabini replied hastily, eyeing Harry dubiously. Dredger sighed and hoisted him up again, pulling his arm around his shoulders.

"I'll call some goblins then – they'll handle it. Have a nice night," he said finally, pulling Harry after him. The Gryffindor giggled and waved goodbye excitedly before slumping against the bouncer.

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><p>Seated in the back room, he endured a series of sobering charms from Sally while she attempted to figure out where to send him.<p>

"No cabs'll come out here any more – the government put a halt to it to try and shut us down. The Knight Bus?" Harry shook his head, letting it loll on his shoulders. She sighed and crossed her arms.

"Well, where _should _I send you?" Harry waved her off, pulling something shimmery from his pocket.

"No worries, Sal – I'll get home fine now," he said, pushing fringe out of his eyes.

"I might not be back tomorrow night – school's about to start, after all, I need to be on my best behaviour." He rolled his eyes and padded to the door, unshrinking the broom he'd been carrying.

"Maybe I'll see you, maybe I won't – bye either way." He waved and ducked onto the street, pulling the Invisibility Cloak over himself as he mounted the broom and kicked off, speeding off in hopes of overtaking the growing storm.

"Aunt Petunia?" The house wasn't usually dark at this time of day, considering that he'd come home so early – it wasn't even dinner time yet.

"Mr. Potter?" He stopped in his tracks, barely stowing his wand before the goblin appeared in the doorway, expression bland.

"Ah – yeah. You are?"

"Grimsteel. I was under the impression you would be here much later, but since you are here now..." He pulled out a thick scroll and unrolled it with a snap, tracing the lines with one fingernail.

"Mr. Potter, I regret to inform you that you are not, in fact, Harry _Potter_. You are not the son of James and Lily Potter at all."

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><p>AN: And that seems like it has nothing to do with anything, right? Hiya, people. Welcome to Rain of Ash. This is the AU of Moribund Oracle - an AU in the sense that a few of the characters met in Spain also appear here. MO, like most of my HP fics, is stalled, but this is the original story that spawned it that has been nagging me for a while. It has flavours of ANOTHER fic that may or may not ever see the light of day (due to lack of plot), but that's highly irrelevant. Um, warnings...there's going to be some gore later, language (as demonstrated at some point earlier), and OoC like never before. ...Well, like always before. XD So. I'd like to update once a week. We'll see how that goes. Feel free to review, look at my other stuff, do whatever - hope you enjoy.

Almost unrelated note: Drunk!Harry amuses me, but I'm not sure how he got in here. xD


	2. Reunión

Harry stared at him, fingers clutching the Invisibility Cloak limply, as if he could hold onto his perceived parenthood through it.

"I – I'm what?" Grimsteel sighed, pushing thin spectacles up his long nose.

"You are actually the son of Lady Philippa Corvus. You were switched at birth with the dead Potter baby, for reasons unknown to us. Your mother – that is, the woman who thought she was your mother, Lily Potter – discovered this at some point near her death, though how she did, I do not know. She penned a letter to you to be given to you at a later date, regardless of if she lived or died; the letter was placed in the Potter family vault with instructions to be given to you during your fourteenth year." He cleared his throat sharply and looked over his lenses at the teen before continuing.

"However, during sorting of the vault in your thirteenth year, the letter was lost; it was rediscovered not long ago, and now I am here to deliver it and news of your relocation – you are to be brought to the Corvus Villa immediately." He rolled the scroll up once more and stowed it, before pulling a slim letter from his coat and offering it to Harry. He accepted it tentatively, as if expecting it to explode, his breathing shallow.

"Your belongings have been packed and delivered to Corvus Villa. I will await you at the door. Please be quick and make sure nothing was left behind." He strode past him, leaving the wizard to stare at the letter in a mixture of bemusement and faint horror, heart pounding.

He wasn't James and Lily Potter's son? Then who _was _he?

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><p>He found himself seated on his old bed, the few knickknacks and stowed belongs that hadn't been gathered in a bag beside him, the letter unfolded on his lap.<p>

_'My dear Harry,_

_If you are receiving this in your fourth year at Hogwarts, I am likely gone, as is James. Know that you are beloved to us, and though you are our son only in name, you are still _our son.

_Yes. We are not actually your blood parents; while scanning your blood for a common illness when you were very young, I discovered inconsistencies – that you bore neither my nor James's blood. When I discovered who your father and mother truly were, I set about penning this letter, unable to contact your biological father as I was and not being an acquaintance of your mother. The letter will have been in Gringotts by the time you get this; no one, not even Dumbledore nor the staff at Gringotts, will know the contents of this letter, save for your true mother's name._

_It grieves me that this will likely come to you without me; I pray your life has not been difficult, that you will have found a loving family, perhaps in my own family, should I be gone. Life is rarely easy, and less so when you are in the position our family is. Have hope and stay strong, my son – my beloved Harry. We will always watch over and love you, regardless of if we draw breath still. _

_With all the love in the world and a prayer for safety,_

_Lily Potter.' _

The letter, in its neat cursive occasionally smudged by now faded tear stains, stared up at him like a beacon, a blazing sign of the lie he had been living. Perhaps he was still the Boy Who Lived, but he was _not _Harry Potter. Throat tight, he scanned the letter once more before stowing it and stiffly picking up his remaining belongings, looking around the room slowly.

He had been here long enough to feel the slightest twinge of sentimentality, but he could not say he was sad to leave this place. However, he did not know where he was going, or even who he truly was – he had never heard of Philippa Corvus, the goblin did now know who his father was, and his mother hadn't mentioned him, though she implied she'd known him. That did not narrow the choices; he did not know all of his parents's acquaintances, close friends, and even relatives. Trembling slightly, he began to head for the door, only to find it blocked by the thin form of his aunt.

Petunia stared at him, expression stiff.

"So you're leaving." He nodded dully, not meeting her eyes.

"Good riddance. You ate our food, slept in our home, and you're not even our blood!" He froze, jaw tight. She sniffed and stalked down the hall.

"Take your freakish ways and get out of my house – and don't you _dare _try to contact us ever again!" He stared after her, cognizant of the hot tears running down his face and bemused as to their cause. He didn't _like _the Dursleys – but the rejection still stung. That was all he'd ever been to them, a burden, an extra mouth to feed, not worthy of affection or even the most basic attention.

"Mr. Potter?" Grimsteel's voice cut through the pounding of his blood in his ears and he swiped the hot tears away, stumbling down the stairs.

"Ah. You are ready?" He released a shuddering breath and nodded once, following the goblin out without a backward glance.

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><p>"I have been instructed to bring you to someone who will escort you to the villa," Grimsteel explained, leading him to a point a little ways away from the Dursley home. He pulled out a battered pipe and held it out, nodding to it.<p>

"You've travelled by Portkey before, yes?" Harry swallowed and nodded, hesitantly putting his hand on it.

"Hold on, Mr. Potter – ah, Corvus." The gutwrenching sensation came and went as he impacted with the ground, glaring at Grimsteel's feet. How he'd landed upright, he'd never know. Struggling to his feet, he brushed himself off and scowled around him. They were in a nondescript warehouse district apparently. Beside the nearest warehouse, a well dressed woman stood, holding a closed parasol and a pocket watch.

"Master Grimsteel – right on time." She smiled cordially at them, her accent causing her to roll the r's in her words ever so slightly. She focused on Harry and her smile turned hesitant.

"Harry, si?" He nodded, trying to identify the language.

"I am Elena Montevero, Lady Philippa's maid." She blushed.

"The lady's steward, Andros, would have come for you, but he is currently dealing with the transfer of your inheritance to the Corvus vaults and the matter of your tuition." She nodded to the bag he held.

"These are the things that were not delivered today?" He nodded once more, his mouth feeling as if it was full of cotton. She smiled sympathetically and addressed Grimsteel once more.

"Thank you again, Master Grimsteel. We shall contact the bank if anything of note comes up. Andros will be in in a few weeks to address some matters of economic interest." The goblin bowed and disappeared without another word. Elena sighed gustily and beckoned.

"I will Side-Apparate you – have you ever travelled by Apparation before?" The teen shook his head and she nodded.

"It is of no matter. Simply hold onto me." She offered her hand and he took it hesitantly, fingers clutching his bag tighter. She hummed and spoke once more.

"Hold on." Again he felt his stomach twist and contract, his entire body forced into a small space and pulled through a tube, before they landed, Elena's grip on his hand strong as he stumbled.

"Ah – you are well?" She looked him over once, raising an eyebrow at his hasty assurances that he indeed well.

"Mm – this way, then." She moved up the hill they'd landed on, opening the parasol absently as she went. Harry hurried after her, head throbbing as he tried to make sense of it all. They walked no more than a few metres before she stopped, closing the parasol again.

"Here we are – Corvus Villa, home of the Corvus family in Spain for thirteen hundred years." She pursed her lips, looking over at him.

"...Welcome home..."

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><p>Home. What an alien concept, in a foreign country, where he knew no one and nothing, floundering in a sea of new information as his barely stable life disintegrated under his feet. He showed no such instability as he followed Elena, but he sensed she knew. She approached him delicately, as if he was fragile – and he likely was. He felt his mouth curl into a smile at the thought of anyone caring enough to be careful with him, regardless of if that care were due to duty or personal interest.<p>

"Andros?" Elena called, resting a hand on Harry's shoulder to signal him to stop.

"We're back," she continued, banishing the parasol.

"And in good time," came the reply from above. Harry craned his head up to see a man who was clearly related to Elena standing on a balcony. He waved to the door.

"I will meet you downstairs. Lady Philippa is currently in the solarium." Elena nodded and beckoned to Harry, leading him up the ridiculously large stone courtyard to the equally enormous double doors. They were already open, several servants bustling in and out of them. One in particular caught Harry's eye; he was holding Hedwig, who was preening.

"Hedwig!" The owl swivelled her head and hooted in greeting, gliding from the man's hand to Harry's shoulder. Elena hastily conjured a pad for her to settle on, smiling at Harry's joy at seeing the loyal bird again. She chirped and began to preen his hair.

"So this is young master Harry." The man who had been holding Hedwig strode forward, offering his hand. Harry shook it with a smile, trusting the man innately – Hedwig had better taste in people than he did, after all.

"She is a beautiful bird, and well cared for – it is a pleasure to meet the one who offers such care to one such as she." Hedwig hooted again and returned to her preening. Harry laughed and scratched her shoulder gently, smile widening. Elena chuckled and shook her head.

"Harry, this is Ricardo – he tends to Lady Philippa's birds and those others in her menagerie." Ricardo rolled his eyes at that.

"A menagerie puts it lightly. She lets wolves and panthers run free on her lands, cares for unicorns, all manner of winged horses, and even tended an ancient basilisk once. She houses more than we really should, citing our debt to Madre Earth." Shaking his head, he looked over his shoulder.

"And here is Andros. I will take the lady owl, if she sees fit," he offered, holding out an arm. Hedwig moved from Harry to Ricardo without a fuss, pausing to press her head into Harry's cheek once before going on her way. The Spainard disappeared into the throngs of servants, leaving Harry to focus on Elena and Andros. The steward sighed, rubbing his hands together.

"Well. Lady Philippa is eager to meet you...this way, if you would." He followed the two into the manor, eyes flicking over the enormous structure as they went. It was far from stark; black marble floors with white marble accents, heavy tapestries, numerous portraits, and most of all, rows upon rows of statues. They covered the majority of the first floor as Andros led them deeper into the villa; some were draped with rich, deep purple silk or blood red velvet, the colours deep enough to be mistaken for one another or even black. The red was scarce, but purple and black could be found everywhere, any number of shades of the purple found in little details. Most of the villa was bright marble, save for the floors; here and there one might come across a section of granite wall. The solarium Andros spoke of was in the far west wing of the villa, bathed in sunlight that seemed to suffuse the whites and silvers there. The room was absent of colour; even the flowers were white. However, the stained glass painted it an array of shades Harry couldn't even name, and in the midst of it all was the woman he presumed to be his mother.

Andros halted them just outside the room, clearing his throat some.

"Harry...before you go in, I feel I must say something." The hair on the back of the teen's neck stood on end, but he didn't say anything, just eyed the man with veiled wariness.

"Lady Philippa will likely want to inform you of your father's identity herself, but forgive me if I fear you inherited one or both of their tempers. You know this man already, and, to be generous, you have had a shaky relationship at best." Elena frowned.

"Andros, please – Lady Philippa-"

"Has been working herself into hysterics for the last few days," he cut her off, scowling.

"She's terrified they will not get along." Harry swallowed, looking between the regal woman preoccupied with the sunset in the other room, and the steward and her maid standing with him.

"A-andros-"

"Your father is Severus Snape." He stopped mid-inquiry, jaw working but no sound coming out.

_Snape?_ Andros correctly read his expression and shook his head.

"He didn't know. He couldn't have – he and Philippa were told you died. They grieve your passing with every birthday." Elena's expression was apologetic and sorrowful; Andros's was similarly apologetic, but there was steely determination in his eyes.

"I will not ask you not to blame him for his treatment of you, but I beg of you – try to understand that he didn't know. He is only human, Harry – he makes mistakes." He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, before striding to the solarium entrance, splaying a hand across the wrought iron and stained glass gate.

"Señora Philippa?" She seemed to start, and the soft singing Harry had thought was from elsewhere in the house went silent. She rose and turned, hands clasped in front of her. Harry inched forward, every muscle tensed, heart hammering in his chest. Elena and Andros seemed to melt from the room, leaving mother and son to meet each other for the second time.

* * *

><p>She was wholly different from the woman he'd thought was his mother. Lily's features and bearing had been soft, bright; Philippa Corvus was regal but seemed innately affectionate. Her smile was hesitantly welcoming – and Harry suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to throw himself into her arms and sob. She seemed to read his posture and stepped forward, drawing him into a tight embrace.<p>

"Oh, Harry...gods, I thought I'd lost you forever," she murmured into his hair, gently rubbing his back as he cried softly into her shoulder. The voice struck a chord in him; a primal recognition of the voice that had cooed affectionate Spanish at him when he'd been born, and he knew in his gut just how wrenchingly awful it would have been for her, these past few years. To have had your son and then have had him declared dead, an inexplicable fatality.

She continued to stroke his hair, murmuring in broken Spanish and English, her own tears making her words watery. She finally pulled back, staring down into his eyes and gently dabbing away his tears, giving him a watery smile. Her eyes were a warm gold; perhaps there was a hint of green, something that gave them an eerie glint and made it easy to disguise his eyes to look like Lily's, but he could only register the utter love in her gaze and felt himself choke on more tears. She laughed and brushed his hair from his eyes, pulling him back into her arms. He clung to her, heart pounding; he had a family, a family that had craved his existence, a mother who loved him furiously, had been living a pained existence without him. He batted away the cruel voice that said their bliss would be short lived once Snape came home and burrowed, mumbling nonsense into her shoulder.

* * *

><p>AN: This may or may not end up qualifying as Severitus; I can't say, because I honestly don't know how to define Severitus. XD Sometimes it's just, 'Snape is Harry's father' or 'Snape is a father FIGURE to Harry' and so on and so forth. I've heard at LEAST three different definitions of the term, so I leave judgment of whether or not this is Severitus to you, should you choose to continue reading.

As for Harry meeting Philippa and whether or not that's a realistic reaction – well, I've toyed with that. See, my first thought is, he's in shock, and is latching onto someone, anyone, he thinks can support him. Another part of me is debating whether or not he would have taken all this at face value; he has been raised knowing that Lily and James Potter are his parents and died in a car accident – oh wait, no, they were murdered. Sorry kid, you're a wizard and the one who has to save us all. ...XD Ahem. Joking done, I'm not entirely sure I'm okay with his reaction, but unless I see another, better way to do it or someone offers a better solution, I'll stick with it.

Finally, I have decided to attempt to update EVERY MONDAY, at whatever time suits me that day. With that said - Roc out (holy FRICK these things are getting long...).

P.S. This isn't beta'd, if anyone's wondering. Z usually reads them over and finds glaring problems after posting, and I'd appreciate grammatical nitpicking.


	3. Revelación

They stayed that way for a long time, until she finally extracted herself from his arms and gently lead him to a low, white couch and sat beside him. She swallowed and inquired, "You are fifteen now?" He sniffled and nodded, laughing weakly at the sound. She smiled and took his hands in hers, eyes bright.

"Ya quince..."

"Ah, Lady Philippa?" She looked up and smiled, gesturing for Elena to come in. The maid set the silver tray she'd brought with her down and folded her hands in front of her, looking nervously between the two of them.

"Ah...Andros says Master Severus will be returning soon. Work..." she frowned. "Work has delayed him some." Philippa's eyes questioned, spoke of deep concern. Elena shook her head.

"He is fine, my lady – he just received disturbing news." The raven haired woman raised an eyebrow and nodded once, smile returning slowly.

"Gracias, Elena." The maid curtseyed, smoothing her dark skirt.

"I will return with Master Severus when he arrives." Harry scuffed his foot across the floor as his mother viewed their offerings.

"Fruit, tea, brazo gitano..." She looked up and chuckled at his bemused expression.

"Cream filled sponge cake. Tonya must be very excited to meet you – she rarely makes this." She settled, summoning one of the cups of tea.

"Mm...orange tea, flavoured with black licorice." Harry hesitantly picked up one of the remaining two cups and inhaled the scent; as she'd said, licorice and orange, with the smell of honey – a sweetener. He sipped it slowly, staring at his new found mother over the rim of the lavender and sage painted china. Her poise reminded him of Malfoy's mother, from what little he remembered of her from last year, and yet they seemed wholly unalike. There was a warmth to Philippa that the Malfoy matriarch had seemed to lack – but then again, maybe he was biased. And why was he thinking about the Malfoys anyway?

"Harry?" He started, clutching the cup to make sure he didn't slosh tea on himself. She raised an eyebrow, small smile unwavering.

"Galleon for your thoughts." He bit his lip.

"I'm...still adjusting to this...Mother." He congratulated himself for reading her properly when her eyes lit up at the form of address.

"It is to be expected," she replied, setting the delicate cup down. "You have lived one way, being told one thing, and are now being told another and asked to live a different way. It is natural that you would be unaccustomed to...this." She nodded to the tray, the room. He sighed and nodded, taking another sip from the cup as she nibbled on a strawberry, eyes flitting around the room. The quiet was finally settling over them, and with it came the inherent awkwardness of the scenario. Harry shifted in his seat and found himself hoping Snape would get there soon.

* * *

><p>Severus fought the urge to pace, gritting his teeth. The Dark Lord had been plotting for years, it seemed, and saw fit now to put those plans into action – specifically, procuring the services of Grindewald's infamous Red Guard. Five men and women bound to Grindewald through magic, blood, threats, and coercion, they'd chosen to aid him to protect those closest to him. Atrocious acts and protection of Grindewald had earned them exile from England, but their impact on history, pureblood status, and powerful magical status sealed their place in magical society as near royalty, however infamous they may be.<p>

"Severus." He barely contained a flinch at Lucius's purr, turning to face him. His son and wife stood behind him, seeming to be trying to melt into the shadows.

"Lucius," he returned the greeting, schooling his features into their usual grim mask. The blonde's eyes were still fervently bright; one could maybe hoax themselves into thinking it was excitement for the nearing initiation of his son, but anyone who knew the man to even the slightest degree knew it was power lust. He was zealously excited about the Dark Lord's newest plan, and the power it could and likely would grant him.

"Well, Severus...we have known each other for a long time." No, really? He hadn't known that. He seemed to have missed the seven years in Hogwarts, never mind the years of service to the Dark Lord, false or not in his case.

"I have...delicate business to attend to, as you no doubt know. I am concerned it will put Narcissa and Draco in unnecessary danger. I am sending them to Spain – and would rather at least one other person I can trust knew it. It is only a precautionary thing, but I would have you know and be able to assist them should the need arise." He smirked, the expression vaguely oily.

"It should not be necessary."

"Of course Lucius. Family must come before business." The blonde's smile went brittle and Severus almost flinched. Collecting himself, he tried to steer Lucius away from the perceived insult, commenting on the brilliance of the Dark Lord's plans. Per usual, flattery to the Dark Lord distracted the man sufficiently, leaving Severus to try to end the conversation quickly. Finally the man decided he could leave his fellow Death Eater alone and departed, leaving his son and wife to the man he thought was his Lord's most trustworthy servant. He sighed, raking his fingers through his hair. Narcissa cleared her throat, posture relaxing some.

"Thank you, Severus. He has been..." She frowned, eyes flicking around the darkness. Draco scowled, snapping, "Insufferable at best, a violent slave driver at his worst." Narcissa blanched at his harsh tone.

"Draco!" The teen flinched and lowered his eyes but his jaw remained stubbornly tight. The Potions Master took in their weary stances and contained a wince. Perhaps Spain would soothe their unease, but somehow he doubted things would be so calming as he hoped, for either of them. Shaking his head, he beckoned, leading them to the Apparation point. In his worry he almost forgot about the bizarre meeting with the goblins at Gringotts earlier.

Almost.

* * *

><p>It was driven entirely from his mind in the hours he spent escorting the two purebloods to the Portkey station, following them to Spain, and helping them settle, however minimal his assistance was, into the small manor within the city limits of Barcelona. He left them soon after to peruse their temporary lodgings, bypassing his usual roundabout process to reach the villa, Apparating there immediately, relief coursing through him at the sight of the low sprawling structures that made up the villa, a small smile slipping across his face as he made his way into the main courtyard.<p>

"Master Severus!" He paused as Andros appeared in the manor's doorway, clutching a piece of paper in one hand. Behind him, Elena looked on, mouth twisted into a worried frown.

"Elena, Andros. Is Philippa-"

"Severus, tu hijo esta aquí, _ahora_." He froze, skin prickling as the memory veil Philippa had cast on him years before translated the words and filtered them to his stunned mind. Slowly, he stepped forward, letting the steward usher him into the villa. He dully noticed the deep reds and purples he remembered from his last visit were steadily giving way to the traditional blacks and golds of the original Corvus palace of old. _Philippa must be feeling nostalgic. _Andros caught his arm before they entered the pale solarium, voice pitched low.

"He knows, Severus – and you must be cognizant of his pain before your own. I know I am speaking as an outsider, but I also speak as your friend." He swallowed and shook his head, releasing his arm.

"Just..." He trailed off, whatever he meant to say going unspoken as he stepped aside, letting Severus into the room.

Philippa had given up on subtlety when her husband finally arrived; she'd been staring at the door with such single minded intensity Harry was concerned it might shatter from the force of her stare. When Severus finally crossed the threshold, he was all but ambushed by his over-excited wife. Catching her mid-exuberant embrace, he tried to exude some form of calm, but was again overwhelmed when she began to mutter sharply in Spanish.

"Philippa – Philippa, what-"

"Shh!" she finally exclaimed, pressing a finger to his lips.

"Escúchame," she continued in Castilian, expression pleading.

"Please, _please _hear him out, and he will do the same for you. I know your relationship isn't exactly...conducive to discovering you are actually father and son, but Severus, _please_ – this is what we've always wanted, to have our hijito back, to be the family we always meant to be!" The Potions Master could only nod stiffly, his mind whirling as that niggling worry, the one he hadn't been able to place after the Death Eater meeting, surged to the forefront of his thoughts, leaving his mouth dry and his stomach roiling dangerously.

Harry Potter was his son. He finally extracted himself from his wife's clutching fingers and moved around her slowly, feeling her slide from the room and imagining her moving down the hall, worrying herself sick. Jaw tight, he moved further into the solarium, waiting for the storm of emotions to break.

The teen was seated stiffly on one of his wife's favourite seats, a woven basket chair set with plush white pillows all detailed with subtle pastel flowers wilting with onset of fall. He'd always found it morbid; she found it poetic. He highly doubted the boy had even noticed them at all.

"..." He found himself at a loss for words; something in him desperately wanted to embrace this, accept the boy as his son and move on, but the rest of him, the practical and likely cynical parts of him, insisted he was naïve to think that possible. Those parts of him despised change, and ached to cut the sullen boy before him down to size with a few well aimed barbs, but most of those were hypocritical now, and he didn't particularly think of himself as a hypocrite-

"I'm pretty sure I've watched you think yourself in a circle, sir, just now." He almost started at his voice, but quickly tamped down the involuntary muscle movement and began to scowl, only to have that voice in his head that could be labelled as a conscious (and sounded fantastically similar to his wife's voice) absently remind him that this was possibly his only chance of mending this relationship. He stared at the teen and finally sat, mind stuttering to a halt.

He had no idea in any hell how to deal with this.

* * *

><p>Harry shifted in the chair, uncertain as to what he should be doing. His professor – his <em>father<em>, hissed that ever so helpful voice in the back of his head – hadn't moved, hadn't even spoken, since he'd come in. He hadn't even responded to Harry's weak sally, and now Harry was thinking that maybe Snape hated him so much that even being his son wasn't a redeeming quality, that he really just hated _him_, not his father and his father's friends, that he hated that he'd lived when Lily had died-

He started when he felt hot tears run down his face and dashed them away, appalled by his lack of control. Since when did he _care _how Snape felt about him? He rose abruptly, staring at the man hard, fingers clutching the edge of his shirt convulsively as he tried to read the always dour man in front of him.

"D-do you-" He stopped. Did he dare ask? Did he even deserve to know? He almost scoffed; of course he deserved to know, it had to do with him, didn't it?

"Do you hate me?" he finally bit out, trying not to scrub away his tears too conspicuously.

"I mean, you hate me, right? You always have, ever since I came to Hogwarts – and you didn't know I was your son, because no one did, no one alive anyway, so it's not your fault now...I didn't exactly try to make peace with you, I've always blamed you for things that weren't your fault-" He stopped and stared, waiting desperately for some reaction, _any _sign that he understood, or cared, or anything-

"I'm sorry, Harry." He started, staring at the dull eyed man with wide eyes. The Potions Master shook his head, dropping it into his hands. Though his voice was muffled, Harry had a good idea of what he was saying.

"I had no right...I would understand if you hated me. My behaviour was appalling, even in light of my ignorance." Silence fell heavily over them as they finally met one another's eyes and really looked at one another for the first time. Harry took a deep breath and stepped forward, kneeling in front of the older wizard.

"Professor – F-father..." He swallowed hard at the slight flinch from the other man.

"I've wanted a family for so long...a family that loved me for me, that didn't endure me because I was blood." He ignored his very noticeable flinch this time and moved closer.

"I'm not saying we should forget what happened between us before, but there's nothing saying we can't be family now." He bit his lip.

"I-" Snape finally moved, pulling him up and into a hug, startling him into silence and filling him with quaint warmth. He felt _loved_, even though he had no illusions as to how long it would take to truly repair their relationship. He vaguely recognised the sound of the door opening before he was enveloped in a second pair of arms and found himself comfortably sandwiched between his parents. Muffled, he muttered, "This is great, but you two had better not start kissing over me." He heard Snape snort and reply dryly, "It isn't our fault you're short enough for that to be a viable option." The teen wriggled free and feigned indignation while his mother giggled, eyes sparkling with rare joy.

* * *

><p>It was spoken in whispers throughout the villa, that the lost son of their mistress was returned to them. There was a lack of malice or uneasiness here that Harry had come to expect from such whispers, so much so that he found himself off-kilter. No matter the welcome, no matter the abrupt transformation of his life, the haze was clearing and he was finally faced with facts, cold and implacable.<p>

The man he'd hated for four years, a hatred born of mutual misinformation and too many scathing comments, was his father.

A woman he'd never heard of but sensed was more powerful than she appeared was his mother.

His family – or rather, the people he'd thought were his blood – would not receive him again without force if he were somehow unable to remain here.

There were secrets here – secrets in the walls and floors, in the too bright eyes of his newly rediscovered mother – and they could very well threaten this newfound happiness if he didn't uncover them immediately.

Well, perhaps that last one was not fact so much as _feeling_. He could almost taste the layers of magic in the air, walls, and floors. The villa was awash in the stuff. A small smile cracked his calm as he sat on the bed of the room he'd been given. It was spartan right now – all white-washed walls and dark wooden furniture. It smelled warm, as if the stone walls were sunbaked, the light infusing the walls and lingering as a sense of heat.

Casting a glance at the door, he flopped back onto the bed, smile widening. He felt like a fool, but that absurd happiness was bubbling up in his stomach again and didn't give a _damn _what he looked like. Exhaustion was catching up to him, and despite his best efforts, winning the war for his attention, so he relented, slipping into sleep's embrace, the smile never wavering.

* * *

><p>AN: AAAAAND HERE'S CHAPTER THREE! Again. Since I redid it. The Spanish is all saved from the original version, with the translations (from Z) as following:

Ya quince: Fifteen already.

Gracias: Thank you.

tu hijo esta aquí, _ahora_: Your son is here, _now_.

Escúchame: Listen to me.

hijito: ...Actually, I can't remember her original translation for this. XD Little son/dear little one, I think.

brazo gitano (not one of her original translations): gypsy's arm. Essentially a Spanish Twinkie, to quote my mater. XD

And now a note on Philippa; I say she's speaking Castilian, after placing them in/just outside Barcelona, which is the capital of the nationality (I think that's the official word) of Catalonia, which means, in short, she probably SHOULD be speaking Catalan, especially given her status there (which I will explain in the next chapter, likely). However, as I understand it (I'm not Spanish, this is pulled solely from a middle school research project, some scant reading on the subject, and Wikipedia), Castilian is essentially standard Spanish. ...But don't quote me on that. My technical reasoning for her speaking Castilian is that it's her childhood language - she was raised in Madrid (which is in Castile) by her father's family.

LONGASS EXPLANATION DONE. This ending is sappysappysappy. The angst eventually will rear it's ugly head...I'm pretty sure...


	4. Transformación

That smile was gone when his door banged open the next morning, startling him from his sleep and sending him crashing to the floor in a tangle of dark sheets, a multitude of Parseltongue oaths flowing from his lips as he struggled to right himself. Andros chuckled from behind a less than amused Severus, who calmly stated, "We have been trying to wake you for fifteen minutes. Forgive us for being so hasty." Harry glowered up at him, and Andros laughed harder. Muttering and struggling free of the sheets, he finally stood and tugged on his wrinkled clothing he'd fallen asleep in.

"I'm awake," he announced, holding out his arms and scowling. Severus finally allowed a small smile, shaking his head.

"You share your inability to stomach mornings with your mother. Were it up to her, she'd sleep until noon." Startled by the visible affection in his professor's face, he felt the irritation dissolve. That little bubble around the previous day's events burst, and the memories flooded him; for a moment he simply stood and blinked, dazzled and dizzied. Andros's mirth seemed to be waning into concern; he waved him off and offered a bemused smile.

"I'm fine." Fine. A lukewarm adjective for how he felt, and yet the implied contentedness was so rare to him all he could do was smile. Someone out of sight scoffed, "You broke him, Andros! What will you tell Philippa?" The heavyset man snorted and shifted his low weight, drawling, "I will tell her the blame falls upon the shoulders of her husband." Severus glared over his shoulder at the laughing men, before turning his attention to his-

_Son, Severus. You can call him your son, at least in your head. _Now he scoffed aloud and shook his head.

"If you are thoroughly awakened and in control of your faculties, your mother wishes to see you in the lesser dining room. Breakfast is ready." He paused at the door and eyed the wrinkled mess the teen made.

"You might wish to change clothes."

* * *

><p>Andros and a whip-like make he introduced as Sergio led him to the dining room in question. He was surprised to find his mother there, but no Potions Master in sight. As if sensing his bemusement, Philippa called, "Your father is relishing in the lack of demands upon his person and is sleeping in. I merely woke him to wake <em>you<em>." Blinking, he sat and nodded dumbly, inciting another chuckle. Andros moved to stand behind Philippa, addressing her in Spanish, while Sergio took up a similar position behind Harry, hands clasped behind his back.

"Given your new status as a son of the Corvus family, I've summoned a few people – stylists, if you will – to the villa." Philippa nudged a wedge of melon around the delicate plate before her, sighed, and set the fork down, continuing, "I recognise I should probably give you time to settle in without my interference..." She trailed off, and Sergio cracked, "But she will not, because she cannot function without meddling in someone's life; the more personal the connection, the better." Philippa eyed the thin man icily.

"Kindly silence yourself, Sergio." Mockingly, he mimed stitching his mouth closed and tossing the needle. Shaking her head at the servant's antics, she turned her attention to Harry.

"If you would rather I leave you alone, say so." A few servers circled the small room, placing dishes on the low table and gliding away silently, leaving Harry to fiddle with a bone-handled fork etched with a sea tableau.

"I – don't particularly have a preference." Of course, he didn't actually know what she intended, but the point was moot. He shrugged to punctuate his sentence, dropping the fork and wincing when it clattered against the plate. Sergio mumbled something overhead in a language Harry couldn't identify; twisting, he eyed the man suspiciously, receiving only a small grin in reply. His mother sighed.

"Sergio, do not tease him – and in a language he can understand if you _must_." Twisting a curl around one finger, she rose and moved to Harry's side of the table.

"Which reminds me. If I may – I would like to instate a temporary memory veil. It will ease you into fluency in Spanish culture and dialects, with some etiquette and the like thrown in for good measure." She pursed her lips.

"Of course, I cannot guarantee Sergio will not continue to mock you in whatever heathen tongue he mastered in his time in the mountains of Italy, but at least you will be able to counter in a civilised fashion." Sergio scoffed; Harry snorted. Shaking her head at both of them, she looked at her son expectantly. Again he shrugged.

"If it'll help." Lowering herself into a chair beside him, she gently cupped his jaw and met his eyes, seeming to search them for more confirmation, before humming lowly. Expecting a wand, he flinched away; instead he heard only the sibilant flow of Parseltongue, and the cold sensation of the ring on his mother's ring finger. The metal heated steadily as she continued to hiss the incantation, before murmuring lowly, "Open your eyes." Startled, he did so. When had he closed them?

* * *

><p>Philippa's lips tipped up in a tiny smile, and she gently laid a kiss on his forehead, leaning back.<p>

"There." He blinked and stifled a gasp; though he could clearly recognise she was speaking Spanish, not English, he understood as perfectly as if she had. He could practically feel it, a fluttering sensation in the back of his mind as it translated the dialect and offered little annotations as to grammar, casual versus formal usage, and a slew of other facts he somehow doubted he'd ever _need_.

"A memory veil," Philippa said as she rose and returned to her side of the table, "is a spell meant to insert a portion of the caster's memories to another, organic vessel. It was developed by ancient Parselmouths who noted a hive mind in many animals, and recognised an ability for them to communicate amongst themselves even when they were not of the same species. Though snakes are solitary creatures, they seem to have cues amongst themselves that are not wholly physical." She looked at him over a skewered piece of fruit on her fork.

"It has not been translated into Latin in such a way that it might be used by non-Parselmouth casters, and so far it cannot be cast with a wand at all, as is the case with most Parseltongue spells." Harry gaped at her, food forgotten, mind whirling as the memory veil helpfully informed him that his current behaviours were not considered proper in any setting, casual or otherwise.

"You – I-"

"Yes, your ability to speak with snakes is hereditary, not some offshoot of whatever happened when Voldemort attempted to kill you. Close your mouth." Snapping his mouth shut hard enough to let his teeth click audibly, he struggled to voice his thoughts coherently.

"I thought being a Parselmouth was rare." Shoving a black curl behind her ear, Philippa conceded, "It is – however, there are certain genetic factors that greatly increase the likelihood of the ability to be passed on to one's offspring. Eat, or Tonya will have a fit. Elena informed her of your emaciated state and she is intent upon fattening you up." Half wincing, half scowling – he wasn't _emaciated_ – he served himself from the chilled platters of fruit, grabbed a nut-studded roll, and carefully took one of the single servings of heavy bread pudding and pulled it forward, eyeing it with a mixture of uncertainty and awe.

"Torrijas." He blinked and looked up. Philippa smiled.

"Bread pudding, dear. We call it torrijas."

"Oh." She chuckled at the awkward quiet between them and returned to her fruit, nursing a cup of what smelled like coffee. Slowly, what she'd said sunk in, and he immediately put his fork down, the silverware clacking on the plate; Philippa sighed.

"Yes, hijito?" He paused in the middle of beginning to speak, blinking at the endearment.

"Um – you said there are, uh, genetic factors? Like what?" The Spanish woman hummed and popped a piece of fruit into her mouth, chewing slowly. Swallowing, she replied airily, "My father was a sailor – the captain of a merchant vessel of a friend, as I understand it. Apparently, while in Greece, he found himself infatuated with a woman of mysterious origin. Though warned against it, he pursued her, and my older brothers were conceived."

"Convinced that he was in love, he begged her to return home with him. Now, this is where the story becomes more legendary than not; according to my uncle, my father's pleas fell on deaf ears, until he demanded to know why, beyond any sentimental attachment, she would not leave Greece. She begged him to simply forget the matter and leave her. Upon doing so, he found himself faced with none other than the god Poseidon himself, who insisted he heed his warning and stop pursuing his fair love."

"When asked why, my father was informed that my mother was, in fact, a siren – the head of her flock and a priestess of the Grecian sea gods in her own right." She chuckled at his dumbstruck expression.

"Though I cannot verify that my father did in fact meet and speak with ancient Poseidon, it_ is_ fact that my mother – your grandmother – is a siren. In fact, I've many half sisters hatched from eggs." Now she gestured with her fork.

"Stop gaping – you'll catch flies – and finish your breakfast. We're expecting company."

* * *

><p>Only after Andros could verify to Tonya that he had consumed at least two helpings of everything was Harry excused, only to be herded toward the north wing of the villa, where Elena waited with two men surrounded by heaps of cloth, racks of clothing, several different boards littered with drawings, and a table covered in tools Harry could only begin to fathom.<p>

Gliding forward, Philippa greeted both men warmly, exchanging air kisses before beckoning to Harry, who inched forward, already uneasy surrounded by so much clothing. He'd guessed his clothing wasn't exactly the norm among the upper classes, but for some reason he hadn't expected his wardrobe – or lack thereof – to be ambushed so early.

"Harry, these are Emmanuel and Giorgio Patel, husbands who are employed as personal stylists throughout España." Emmanuel was the taller of the two, with black eyes and hair that had been shaved on each side of his head, bleached blonde, then dyed in a riot of yellows, greens, and oranges, with what Harry was relatively certain was pink here and there. Whenever he turned his head, Harry could swear he saw birds flit across the surface of his shiny hair, but quickly passed it off as a trick of the light. Giorgio was shorter, his head shaved completely and inked with elaborate tattoos of winged fish that flitted across his head and swirled around one another.

Smiling, Giorgio offered his hand, saying, "It's a pleasure, Harry. Philippa is overjoyed to have you back, as is much of Spain." Recognising the confusion on the teen's face, he explained, "You're something of a national treasure, as are all of the Corvus family. You just happen to be that much more treasured because beloved Philippa thought you lost." Nodding slowly, he shook the other man's hand and let himself be led to a chair and seated, at which point Emmanuel flitted over, tsking brightly.

"I can see I'm either going to have to shave your head or get creative." Immediately Harry twisted to stare at him to glean if he was joking or not, but he could see only utter seriousness on the tall man's face. Philippa laughed and gently swatted his shoulder.

"Just do your job, and do not shave his head!" Shrugging, Emmanuel circled him, clicking his tongue and occasionally whistling. Giorgio shook his head and called Philippa over to one of the drawing covered boards, leaving Harry to the bright-haired man's mercy.

"Well. This isn't a completely lost cause, unlike your clothing. You inherited your mother's hair, which is your saving grace." He clicked his tongue again and shook his head.

"Your father won't let me anywhere near _his _hair, so I cannot attest to its quality, but I know Philippa's hair better than anyone but Elena and our darling duchess herself." Twirling a comb between his fingers, he pulled up a stool and spun Harry to face him, resting his elbows on his knees. Smiling, he asked, "Have any requests? Philippa just wants me to tame it some, but I'm sure she wouldn't mind a subtle ilusión." Harry blinked.

"Illusion?"

"Sí, as I have." He paused, and chuckled.

"It's not so easy to see in my hair, but Philippa's? Exquisite. Philippa, querida, I am in need of your glorious mane." Philippa paused in her conversation with Giorgio and turned to eye Emmanuel.

"What-" He beckoned.

"I need a better example of my work. I can fix your hair later." Rolling her eyes, she moved to his side.

"Why is yours not acceptable?" He fluttered at her, exclaiming, "My own hair is far too bright to allow him to see just what his would look like, given his agreement to allow me to work my magic properly." Harry blinked and looked at his mother, who sighed, a smile tugging at her lips.

"Very well," she conceded, carefully pulling pins from her hair and placing them on the table, letting her hair unfurl in an inky curtain around her shoulders. Whistling some, Emmanuel beckoned to Harry, casting Lumos and slowly gliding the light over the surface of Philippa's hair.

"You see?" Squinting, Harry rose and leaned forward, eyes adjusting to the too bright light to see-

He gasped. Butterflies, silvery against the darkness of her hair, fluttered toward the top of her head, transforming into ravens when they reached a certain point and spiraling back down to the tips of her hair to begin the cycle again. Smiling, Philippa pushed her hair over her shoulders and said, "It's a common trend in the Asias, something developed in ancient times. We of España and Portugal have recently adopted the tradition to allow for a new, more subtle fashion of expression."

"Philippa may not have aged so obviously as others in her family, but she has aged some, and this has allowed her to indulge in her vanities, much to the relief of those of us who had to endure her tantrum when she first discovered the silver hairs." Philippa whirled and glared at her smirking husband, who strode forward and slid his arms around her shoulders, kissing the top of her head.

"Elena, Sergio, and Andros were all there – they agree with me." She cast a glance at the servants in question, who all simply coughed and averted their eyes, trying to hide smiles. Emmanuel scoffed and waved a hand.

"The vanities of the rich keep me in business, Philippa – indulge all you want. And you!" Severus stopped him before he began, stating dryly, "When I die, you may attempt to do something with my hair, if my body is still intact. Until then, you'll just have to suffer." The tall man huffed; his husband chuckled and again called Philippa back to the board. Severus followed, though Harry figured he wasn't actually participating in the conversation; sure enough, he sat on a window seat and produced a book, reading in silence while the two discussed the drawings. Directing a baleful look at the reading man, Emmanuel muttered lowly before turning his attention back to the teen.

"Well? It is not difficult thing. I think, some iridescence, a little dull black, it will be easily done." He looked to Harry, who allowed a small smile.

"I wouldn't know what to ask for." Emmanuel chuckled.

"Perhaps something you hold in pride but would rather not flaunt? A symbol of power, perhaps. You are a Corvus now. Power becomes you, subtlety even more so." Immediately the sounds of Parseltongue flickered through his mind; he felt his smile widen, and Emmanuel's eyes seemed to sparkle.

"So something has come to you?"

* * *

><p>He wasn't entirely sure what Emmanuel did to his hair, but the end result of what had to be three hours left his hair manageable even to him, and shimmering with coiling winged serpents that occasionally hissed in his ears. He'd cut it so that it just covered his ears for that reason, ruffling it when he was finished and stepping back to examine his work.<p>

"...Excelente. I leave him in your capable hands, querido." Giorgio looked up and frowned.

"Already? Alas, I've a mere fraction of the collection decided upon." Emmanuel shrugged, and he sighed.

"So be it. Come here if you would, Harry." Rising and stretching, he worked kinks out of his shoulders and neck as he switched places with his mother, who commented, "I've also summoned Layla Tauri, Giorgio. She'll be here in half an hour or so." The man hummed and nodded in affirmation, beckoning to the teen without looking up from what he was doing.

Severus had disappeared some time during the second hour, citing potions that needed his attention. Sergio was napping on a window seat, Elena was scanning a catalogue Giorgio had given her to choose designs for the rest of the villa's servant's uniforms, and Andros was examining a set of ledgers.

The shorter of the two men patted a spot on the couch he sat on, stitching the hem of something leather in his lap. Sitting, Harry eyed him warily. Looking up as if sensing his wariness, the short man offered him a smile.

"I have seen what little wardrobe you have, and understand them to be mostly hand-me-downs, with gifts here and there?" He nodded. The shorter man shrugged.

"We start from scratch then." Rising, he nudged Sergio, who awoke instantly, muscles tensed for a moment, before he relaxed slowly, sitting up and stretching.

"Mm?"

"Procure your young master's measurements while I finalize these first few robes, por favor?" Grumbling, Sergio rose and beckoned to Harry, who followed him into the adjoining room, also overflowing with drawing boards, cloth, and half finished clothing cluttering large racks. As he measured him, Harry asked, "Why did Emmanuel call Madre duchess?" He didn't notice the Spanish amidst the English; Sergio seemed to find this amusing, but didn't comment, replying, "Your mother is la duquesa de Barcelona – at least, she is here. It is a position she inherited from her abuela paterna, though she is the youngest daughter. Her older sisters were not eligible, as Gloriana – the eldest sister – is a priestess of Juno in Roma, and the two following sisters are married into French and Greek families with their own titles and responsibilities. As your padre is not of a noble family, she is the only eligible daughter of the original Corvus line." He paused.

"I imagine you have lands and titles of your own, if you are interested. You need only ask Andros. Though he is your mother's steward, he takes care of such things for you and Fabiàn as well." Silent, Harry absorbed this information, including the implied brother. Severus hadn't said anything about an older brother, and had implied that his mother, who he knew now was half siren, was quite a bit older than him. It would make sense he'd have half siblings from previous marriages.

Before he could continue his interrogation of the other man, Giorgio entered, a pile of robes slung over one arm.

"Measurements, Sergio?" The thin man offered a stripe of parchment with the measurements in question; balancing the robes expertly, he cast a critical eye over them.

"You are far too small, Harry. Don't you eat? You have decent muscle definition, I can see that much, but the ratio of muscle to fat is ridiculous. Your overall body mass is tiny." Shaking his head, he pinned the measurements to a board and waved several piles off the obscured couch, setting the robes on his arm there and turning to face him, hands on hips.

"This will take weeks, I believe, but I have a month's worth of basic pieces for you ready now. We'll begin altering now – in the next few hours, we should have enough for a few weeks, at least."

A few hours melted together in Harry's head, broken up only by the arrival of lunch, delivered by Elena, and the arrival of Layla Tauri and her box of elegant glasses. Giorgio introduced her as an accessory designer; she introduced herself as a woman with a habit of making pretty knick-knacks. In the end, she foisted three different pairs of glasses on him, along with a set of contact lenses – enchanted to allow for various different effects, some even compatible with the glasses. Sergio stole his original glasses, joking that he might want to enshrine them. He was beginning to think he was going to regret not objecting to being assigned a manservant, as Philippa identified Sergio.

"We're done." He started, almost stumbling off the platform Giorgio had had him stand on. Smothering a laugh, Sergio caught and steadied him, while Giorgio directed cloth and clothing into various cases littered around the room.

"You have both casual and semi-formal attire, along with three formal sets of robes. I will have your traditional dress robes delivered in a week or so, and the ball commission a few days after that." To Sergio he said, "We will settle our payment with Andros and see ourselves out. I believe Señora Philippa would like to take Harry into the city." Sergio sighed.

"Madre de los Dioses...brace yourself, niño."

* * *

><p>AN: I meant to have them having a traditional Spanish breakfast, but I figured Tonya (the aforementioned but yet to be met in the flesh cook) would be trying to fatten dear old Harry up. XD Which, given the food, actually doesn't seem viable. Whatever. Who doesn't like fresh fruit for breakfast?

I make a reference to what is supposed be torrijas (I even call it by name), which, as I understand it, is Spanish bread pudding. ...It sounds amazing, whatever it is. XD I considered churros, but then I got hungry and had no doughnuts on hand, so I had to eat mochi instead and one of my cats stole some and has decided he likes mochi, so no churros.

...That makes no sense. WHATEVER.

I am pretty sure Patel is an East Indian surname. Just assume Giorgio is has family there. Original he was supposed to be British, so it's not too far a stretch. Don't ask why he's Giorgio. It's not actually a reference to Giorgio Armani – it was just a place holder, and became a happy coincidence.

Argh, this story is going slow. But whatever. DRACO WILL BE CRASHING THE PARTY NEXT CHAPTER. Meaning we get :Oing and possibly some flirtatious Gypsies. Whaaaaat. XD

Aaaand I'm fairly lazy, so no translations. All of these are Google translated (or translated using my Webster's New Pocket Spanish Dictionary), and are relatively obvious. I don't know where the word torrijas comes from, but eh. The point is, this isn't beta'd and Z hasn't looked at it, so it might not be accurate. With that - R&R, please. Roc out.


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